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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28711452">Little Things</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClaraxBarton/pseuds/ClaraxBarton'>ClaraxBarton</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Black Widow (Comics), Captain America - All Media Types, Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, Winter Soldier (Comics)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Modern: No Powers, D/s, Dom Bucky Barnes, Dom Natasha Romanov, Dom/sub, Established Relationship, F/M, M/M, Married Couple, Multi, Oral Sex, Sex worker Clint Barton, Sub Clint Barton, WinterWidowHawk</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 06:56:19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>6,799</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28711452</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClaraxBarton/pseuds/ClaraxBarton</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint might actually be really damn good at his job - but Natasha and James? They can take him apart with a sentence and a glance.</p>
<p>He loves it as much as he hates it, the way it makes him feel like putty waiting for the two of them to make something of him, to use him for whatever they want.</p>
<p>Another hum from James, and his hand in Clint’s hair guides him closer, until he’s all but lying against him, head close enough to James’s shoulder for the other man to tip his chin down and brush his lips over Clint’s forehead.</p>
<p>“Don’t worry, sweetheart, we’d never forget you.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>-------<br/>Yeah it's 7k of porn.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton/Natasha Romanov, James "Bucky" Barnes/Natasha Romanov</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>150</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Little Things</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kangofu_CB/gifts">Kangofu_CB</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>For CB, who is out there saving lives and being a fucking badass. I can't say if I will ever circle back to People Who Need People, and this is a totally different dynamic but... I hope it's an okay stand in for now.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>All the thanks, always, to Ro, for all the things. Best beta ever.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Tags:: D/s; Dom Bucky; Dom Natasha; sub Clint; sex worker!Clint, established relationship Bucky/Nat; established relationship Bucky/Nat/Clint; AU; oral sex</span>
</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>
  <span>------</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>------</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Clint likes Mandalay Bay. He might go so far as to call it his favorite hotel on the Strip.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>So the fact that his evening plans begin and end there - it means that it’s going to be a decent night, at the very least.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>That those plans include a certain redhead and a certain brunet, well… Clint is pretty sure he can count on this night being more than merely decent.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>They start at the Foundation Room, the swanky rooftop lounge with a fantastic view of the Strip. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Clint meets them there, tells the maitre’d that the Romanovs are expecting him, and he’s led to a plush, secluded outdoor seating area where the Romanovs are indeed expecting him.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It’s April, and cold enough in the desert night air that the standing heaters are buzzing away, but the couple reclining on the oversized black leather couch don’t look at all concerned with the cool temperatures.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>They smile when they see him approach. Well, they </span>
  <em>
    <span>smirk</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Clint does the smiling. Well, the grinning.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Both Romanovs stand up to greet him, setting down cocktail glasses and walking around the low table in front of their couch to embrace him.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Natasha is all of five feet three inches, a full foot shorter than Clint, dressed in a strapless silver cocktail dress that hugs her body like a second skin all the way down to her hips and from there falls into a shimmering column to her knees. A slit on the left side goes almost to her hip, and the skin it reveals is… distracting.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>She’s wearing very high heels, so she’s almost as tall as her husband, James, beside her in a black dress shirt, black jacket and black trousers.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>That Clint is taller than them both, outweighs James, and is, in fact, a three-time Olympian and still in shape enough to try for a fourth Olympics should mean that he isn’t intimidated by them.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>But only an idiot wouldn’t be intimidated by Natasha and James Romanov.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>James puts one arm around Clint’s waist, pulling him close, while on his other side, Natasha leans up on her toes and brushes her very red, very shiny lips over Clint’s jaw.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s good to see you,” she croons, voice low and sexy and dangerous as all fuck.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Clint shivers.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He’s not an idiot - he’s intimidated by them. He was the very first time he met them.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>But considering that this is the fourth time he’s been with them, he can’t decide if that makes him something worse than an idiot or… or what, he doesn’t know.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>James leads Clint back to their couch, sits him down between himself and Natasha.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“How have you been?” James asks him, voice just as low and sexy and dangerous as Natasha’s.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Good. Busy, which is good,” Clint says. The small talk always throws him. Not normally - normally, Clint can pick a random topic and run with it until he’s literally charming the pants off of someone. But Natasha and James? Small talk feels like it’s either all in code or all just a ticking time bomb.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Mm,” James hums.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>His arm shifts, no longer around Clint’s waist but moving up his back and across his shoulder, urging Clint to lean back against both him and the couch.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Clint does so, and Natasha sits back against the opposite arm of the couch, looking at the pair of them with dark eyes and her lips still curved into a smirk.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“And you two?” Clint asks. “Been a few months.” He’s not sure if that sounds weird - if that sounds needy or creepy or what.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>But James huffs a laugh and picks up his drink, and Natasha keeps smirking. So… it’s not the worst thing he could have said.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Neither answers, though, because a waiter appears.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“What would you like to drink, sir?” she addresses Clint. Her hair is in an alarmingly high, tight ponytail, and it swings a little bit. Clint is unwillingly fascinated by it.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“He’ll have the Mad Mule,” Natasha answers for Clint.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“And we’ll have the lounge menu,” James adds.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The waiter pauses.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“All of it, sir?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>James nods, and she immediately perks up. Tips on three drinks were one thing, tips on the entire lounge menu - nearly a dozen small plates of fusion cuisine - was another. Especially since it all but guaranteed there would be more than just the three drinks.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Excellent. I’ll have the Mule out right away and check back soon to see if you need anything else.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Her ponytail bounces as she walks away, and it’s an effort for Clint to tear his gaze away from it.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“We’ve missed you,” James says, fingers edging over the collar of Clint’s white dress shirt and his own black jacket to scratch through the hair at the nape of his neck.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Clint swallows hard and tries to think of what to say to that, aside from the first thing he wants to say.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Not as much as I’ve missed you</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It’s a little - okay, it’s actually a lot - sad. But Clint Barton, world class archer, three-time Olympian - winner of two gold medals and one silver - the </span>
  <em>
    <span>second</span>
  </em>
  <span>-highest paid escort in Las Vegas for the last fourteen months running, is left speechless and hard with just a few fingers in his hair and the heated looks of two very, very attractive people.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He buys time by licking his lips. Natasha’s gaze takes that move in, and James does too, if the way his fingers tightening in Clint’s hair is any kind of clue - and it is.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m sure you found plenty to distract yourselves,” Clint finally says, teasing even though it has always, every single time, come back to bite him in the ass where these two are concerned.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Natasha laughs and takes a sip of her drink, letting the glass linger against her mouth as she looks at Clint over the rim.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You know James and I are rarely bored, but that doesn’t mean we don’t have certain… needs.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Yep. There it is. The punishment for teasing.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Because Clint? Clint might actually be really damn good at his job - but Natasha and James? They can take him apart with a sentence and a glance.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He loves it as much as he hates it, the way it makes him feel like putty waiting for the two of them to make something of him, to use him for whatever they want.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Another hum from James, and his hand in Clint’s hair guides him closer, until he’s all but lying against him, head close enough to James’s shoulder for the other man to tip his chin down and brush his lips over Clint’s forehead.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Don’t worry, sweetheart, we’d never forget you.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>And Clint - he wishes he could scoff, wishes he could offer some smart-ass remark to </span>
  <em>
    <span>that</span>
  </em>
  <span>, but he’s as powerless to respond to James as he is to respond to Natasha. He’s got no defenses against the two of them.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The waiter returns with Clint’s drink, face admirably blank when she takes in the two men wrapped together and Natasha gazing at them with open hunger in her expression.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>James takes the copper mug from the waiter and offers it to Clint.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Slowly - and okay, reluctantly - Clint sits up enough to be able to take a sip.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He’s always been a fan of Mules, but the citrus and blackberry they add here just makes it all that much better. Bitter and sweet and unique. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“How are the renovations coming along on your house?” James asks.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>And it’s a reprieve, for Clint, a chance to take a deep breath and launch into a damn monologue about the work he’s doing on his house, and he knows James is just doing it to play with him. Because that’s what James and Natasha </span>
  <em>
    <span>do</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The first time he’d gone directly to their hotel room, one of those king rooms with the floor-to-ceiling windows and a great view of the Strip, and they had put it out there in very plain - uncharacteristically plain - language.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>They had both been in navy, that time - matching suits with white shirts and neither wearing shoes, and even so, it had felt more like a job interview than a first meeting with clients paying Clint to fuck him for three hours.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re welcome to leave now, or at any time,” Natasha had begun while James poured all three of them vodka tonics - he even went so far as to add lime slices, and Clint was positive those didn’t come in the minibar. “And we won’t ask for a refund.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Those words had drawn Clint’s attention away from James, his long fingers and the way he arranged the limes just so. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Uh…”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“We’ll use the traffic light system, since we don’t know each other. Does that suit you?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Sure.” Clint had enough clients into kinky shit that he wasn’t phased by that, but the whole keeping the money no matter what had him on full alert, had him wondering if he should go for his phone and give Darcy, his booking agent and emergency call, a text.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“James and I like to play, and we like to win, and you, Clint, would be the one to lose.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Yeah, texting Darcy while running out of the room might be the best plan of action-</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Something tells me you would enjoy losing, Clint,” Natasha said then, voice just a little sharp, just enough to draw Clint out of his panic spiral.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>James had pressed a glass into Clint’s hand, and thank fuck Clint had watched him make the drinks, because he tossed the whole thing back and tried to figure out what in the everliving </span>
  <em>
    <span>fuck</span>
  </em>
  <span> he’d gotten himself into now.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“What, uh, what happens when I lose?” Clint had managed to ask.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>James had smirked, had taken Clint’s empty except for a few sad ice cubes glass away and replaced it with the full one in his hand. Natasha had sipped on her own drink and smirked as well.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“We punish you, of course,” James had informed him casually, calmly, as if he was telling Clint tomorrow it was going to be a little overcast.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>And of course Clint hadn’t walked out that night. Nor any of the nights that followed, even though they always started with the same statement - the same invitation to leave at any point with no monetary repercussions. Even though, as Natasha had so clearly stated that first time, Clint lost their games every single time.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Despite the fact that, to Clint’s knowledge, neither James or Natasha had any interest in architecture, the 1950s, mid-century modern </span>
  <em>
    <span>anything</span>
  </em>
  <span>, carpentry or tilework, they listen to him rattle on about all of the improvements he was making to the bungalow he had purchased two years ago and was slowly restoring to its seventy-year-old glory.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The food arrives just as Clint starts talking about his plans for the firepit and landscaping projects he has planned for the near future.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Natasha lets Clint feed her a few things - a corner of the grilled cheese, a bite of the Vindaloo tacos, a few things from the charcuterie board - but for the most part, it’s James feeding Clint and himself while Natasha watches.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Clint has no idea what the two of them do, aside from </span>
  <em>
    <span>him</span>
  </em>
  <span> once every few months. They have money, obvious by the way they never care what anything costs and how, from the first night, they asked him to spend the night and then the rest of the weekend with them, paying extra to cover Clint’s agent rescheduling his other appointments, and, well, Clint wasn’t cheap.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The last time the Romanovs had booked Clint for a weekend, they had decided to take him to the Westin at Lake Las Vegas and spent the weekend fucking him and doting on him - dressing him entirely from the hotel shops, feeding him, taking him to the spa, taking him golfing. Clint hadn’t even wanted to try to figure out how much that had cost, but judging by Darcy’s squeal of excitement the next time he came by her office and the way she hugged him, it had been a fucking lot.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He and Darcy have gotten drunk and tried to guess what the Romanovs did, who they were, more than once. Clint is still betting on freelance assassins, while Darcy’s current favorite is that they are some kind of incognito European royalty - their lack of accents will not dissuade her, no matter how many times Clint says that James is pure Brooklyn.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>They spend two hours in the lounge. Long enough for their waiter to deliver a half-dozen more cocktails and witness James’s hands wandering a lot of places that are a hell of a lot lower than her very high ponytail could touch.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Still, it’s not quite midnight when they leave, Clint and Natasha hand-in-hand and James just behind them, carrying Clint’s suit coat over his arm so that he can look at Clint and Natasha’s asses without impediment.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Their suite is a short elevator ride away, but it feels like far longer, considering how neither Natasha nor James touch Clint aside from Natasha’s hand in his.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It’s another of their games, or at least a layer of </span>
  <em>
    <span>the</span>
  </em>
  <span> game they play with him. Clint has never been under any illusions when it comes to his job, to sex work - he is there to please the client, which means the client will use him how they want within the boundaries Clint and Darcy have established.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>But only Natasha and James make Clint feel like an actual </span>
  <em>
    <span>toy</span>
  </em>
  <span>, an actual thing for them to play with. It should be demeaning and shitty as hell, but it’s not. Not once has Clint been even the least bit tempted to walk out on them after that very first flutter of panic was subdued.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>When they get into the room, Natasha steps out of her shoes and goes about taking off her jewelry. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It was a part of their ritual, one last thing that soothes Clint before the rest of the night will be a breathless rollercoaster. It isn’t even for him - at least not Natasha taking off her shoes and jewelry. The Romanovs are neat and orderly, and they take care of their possessions, which means Natasha will always remove her shoes and jewelry before any clothes come off, because those are valuable and need to be taken care of.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>For the next thirty-six hours, Clint is another of their possessions, and they are going to take care of him and treat him as something just as valuable.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>James closes and locks the door and then goes down to his knees in front of Clint and unlaces Clint’s shoes.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It had thrown him, the first time James did that. Clint had thought he’d misread the room, their entire dynamic, when James was suddenly kneeling and, for all intents, serving Clint by taking off his shoes. Clint had thought that it was Natasha, then, who would Dominate and James would probably be an extension of her, would be a kind of service sub.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Boy, had Clint been wrong.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>There was absolutely nothing submissive about James. He deferred to Natasha, almost always, sure, but he didn’t submit - not to her and sure as fuck not to Clint. James just went about Dominating a little differently than Natasha.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Stripping Clint bare, removing his shoes and his socks and trousers and briefs and shirt and undershirt, was just part of </span>
  <em>
    <span>his</span>
  </em>
  <span> game.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Clint takes off his own watch, however, just as James is sliding Clint’s socks off. A gift from Natasha, two ‘dates’ ago. It’s an Audemars Piguet, and Clint knows enough to know he doesn’t want to know how much it actually cost, despite the face Darcy made when she looked up the retail price online. Actually, that confirmed just how much Clint doesn’t want to know.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>James has a similar watch - well, it’s the same make, but James’s watch is black and the oversized face has diamonds around the crystal face and exposed gears, while Clint’s is </span>
  <em>
    <span>rose gold</span>
  </em>
  <span> with a brown alligator band and a dozen inset gemstones.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Natasha takes Clint’s watch from his hand while James is still working to undress him, entirely focusing on the task at hand.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>After setting Clint’s watch down on the desk by the window, Natasha sits down on the edge of the bed to watch.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Clint is an actual internationally renowned athlete. Is actually famous. Has had his face on magazine covers and been photographed and interviewed more times that he can count.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>But there is nothing in the world that comes close to having Natasha Romanov look at him like </span>
  <em>
    <span>that</span>
  </em>
  <span>, while her husband is on his knees pulling down Clint’s trousers.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>James huffs a laugh when he sees what underwear Clint is wearing, and it draws Clint’s attention away from Natasha’s gaze for at least a moment.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Clint has spent… a lot of money on underwear over the years. More than he figured he would, when he decided to abandon his career as an archer and become a Las Vegas sex worker. It’s always a guess, when he meets with new clients, what they might want him to wear, what they want from him. Because as many questions as Darcy can ask and as much as they can say, someone telling Darcy they want Clint to fuck them hard all night long doesn’t really translate into what they want him to look like.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Fortunately, Clint knows what James and Natasha want. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>So the white Versace trunks with a gold Greek key border on the waistband weren’t a purchase that caused Clint a lot of stress.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>James’s reaction only helps to reinforce that decision.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You trying to kill me before we even get started?” James asks Clint, staring up at him for a long moment before leaning close and mouthing over the white bulge of Clint’s covered dick.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Clint swallows hard, has to fight to convince his brain to function enough to produce words.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Wouldn’t do me a lot of good,” Clint manages to say.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>James laughs again, but he doesn’t pull down the briefs.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Instead, he gets to his feet and picks up Clint’s trousers, socks and shoes and sets them aside, by the desk, draping the trousers over the chair and laying Clint’s already pilfered suit jacket over them.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Leaving Clint in tight, white trunks, his white dress shirt, and the A-tank underneath it.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>James takes off his own watch, sets it beside Natasha’s jewelry, and steps out of his own shoes before going to stand beside his wife.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>She leans against his side, and James threads a hand through her hair, red and wild with loose curls tonight, when usually she has it pulled back.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You remember the rules, Clint?” Natasha asks him. “You can leave at any time, and we won’t ask for a refund.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Clint nods.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Traffic light system - red if I need you to stop and step away. Yellow to give me a minute. Green for hell yes.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>James’s lips twitch at the last - it’s Clint’s own spin on it - but Natasha just raises one perfect eyebrow.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>She turns to her husband, looks up at him and presents a stunning picture with her neck long and exposed like that.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I think I want him to leave his panties on for now,” she says to James.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>And they’re not-</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>They’re not panties.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>But they are short, barely cover the curve of his ass, and-</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Clint’s face flames hot, but then again, so does his dick. It feels like his balls actually ache, actually grow heavier at Natasha’s words.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Mm,” James hums in agreement. “He is very pretty in them.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>James leans down and gives Natasha a kiss, a soft brush of lips on her forehead, then her nose, and then her lips. He pauses for a moment, hand still in her hair, and Clint feels his own breath catch when James’s fingers tighten into a fist.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Natasha lets James pull her head back even more, her throat working as she swallows once, twice, and then James is kissing her open-mouthed, loud and wet and filthy, and Clint….</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Yeah, Clint wouldn’t want to be anywhere else in the world even if the room around him was on fire.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>When James pulls away, all three of them are breathing hard, and Natasha’s face flushes that delicate, almost not-even-there pink. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>James lets her go and stalks over to Clint, red-lipped and dark-eyed, and Clint would back up, would run away if he could- could move at all.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>As it is, he stands still and lets James unbutton his shirt, shivers at the drag of James’s fingers over his chest and shoulders as he pushes the fabric away.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The sight of the A-tank has James grinning.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He fingers the top of the tank.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You wear this just for me, sweetheart?” James asks.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>As if there was any chance, in any world, that Clint hadn’t spent three days planning what to wear for them, hadn’t rejected multiple garments and outfits, and in the end, still needed Darcy to back him up on his final choices.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah,” Clint says.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>James grins, then - not a smirk, but a wide split of his lips over perfect white teeth and-</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He puts both hands on the tank, bunches the material, and then </span>
  <em>
    <span>rips</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It’s hot as hell, just as hot as Clint had dreamed it would be when James first said something about wanting to rip Clint’s clothes off of his body.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He’s left standing there panting, chest heaving like he just sprinted, his tank split down the middle and hanging open over his chest.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Let me see,” Natasha says from the bed.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>James steps aside, lets her look her fill, and then tugs the scraps of fabric off so that Clint is in nothing but his-</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Trunks.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>They aren’t panties.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Here,” Natasha says, and points to the floor at her feet.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Clint drops to his knees, crawls over to her and sits at her feet and stares up at her and waits to see what they will do to him next.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“James, should we blindfold him now or wait?” Natasha asks while looking down at Clint. She runs her perfectly manicured fingernails over his jaw, his cheek, his forehead and hair.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Another hum from James - his </span>
  <em>
    <span>thinking</span>
  </em>
  <span> hum.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He walks over to stand near them and removes his jacket. He lays it aside and rolls up his shirt sleeves but doesn’t undress further.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It’s usually like this - Clint naked, or nearly, while they are still clothed and deciding how best to ruin him first.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Tension and heat and want coil inside of Clint, and he feels both weighted and weightless with them. Nothing, no one else, gets him there - not this quickly, not this deeply.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>All things considered, that’s probably a good thing - floating off to fucked-stupid oblivion with clients is a bad, bad idea. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Letting it happen with these two… Well, it hasn’t killed him yet.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>James opens a drawer and pulls out a folded piece of black- </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Leather.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It’s a black leather blindfold, not just some satin eye mask thing. It’s padded on the inside and has a buckle to secure it around Clint’s head, and it’s-</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Like everything else with Natasha and James, it is both </span>
  <em>
    <span>nice</span>
  </em>
  <span> and </span>
  <em>
    <span>terrifying.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Clint struggles to keep his breathing steady - hell, to remember to breathe at all.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Do you like it?” Natasha asks Clint, still scratching through his hair, as though he is her pet. Or she is, and he’s her scratching post. He’s not sure there’s really a difference.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes,” he’s able to say after taking in an unsteady gulp of air.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“If you want to wear it for us, ask James to put it on you,” she instructs.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Clint licks his lips and looks up at James. Natasha releases her hold on his hair, which he has mixed feelings about.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Will you, will you please put the blindfold on me?” Clint asks James.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>James gives him another wide grin, all soft and happy. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He puts the blindfold on Clint, buckles it tight.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Good?” James asks, running his fingers around the leather.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Feels great,” Clint answers honestly. The one time he hadn’t - when Natasha had decorated/tortured Clint in bondage tape and he hadn’t warned her ahead of time that he had sprained his ankle a few days prior, both Natasha and James had been furious with him. They wanted him to hurt - they had never bothered to hide </span>
  <em>
    <span>that</span>
  </em>
  <span> - but only intentionally, only in ways they controlled.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Good. Get on the bed, on your back.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Natasha helps him stand, gives him a little push onto the mattress that truly is more helpful than anything else.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Clint situates himself, head on the pillows, stretches out his arms and legs in case this is his last chance to do so. Also because he knows both Natasha and James like his size, the length of his legs, the bulk of his shoulders and biceps, and his so-many-daily-crunches-earned abs. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>With the blindfold on, he’s down his best sense. They know he’s partially deaf, and even though his BTEs are still in, still on, and damn good models, they don’t pick up everything, and even if they did, Clint’s never really… able to completely trust that he’s hearing what he thinks he is.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He isn’t sure how much of that they know, or have guessed. They know he’s partially deaf, because they aren’t idiots and his BTEs are bright purple, and every time they fool around in the shower or after he’s removed them for the night, there’s signing involved, as well as, usually, one or both of them just putting his mouth or dick or ass where they want it instead of telling him what to do.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>So his tension ratchets up a few dozen notches as he lays there and waits. It’s dark, and he’s mostly naked and warm - thank fuck they thought to adjust the room temperature ahead of time, because being mostly naked and cold and anxious isn’t a good recipe for sexy.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It smells like them too, and maybe it makes him a sad, sad creeper that the blend of Natasha’s perfume and James’s cologne is a scent he recognizes.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>But, well, he’s a sad, sad creeper, and the smell eases him a little bit even as it sends a skitter of anticipation up his spine.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The mattress sinks near his right hip, and then a hand is on his stomach.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Natasha, her hand warm and small and soft.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Clint wants to reach out to her, wants to draw her in closer, kiss her because he hasn’t even gotten to do that yet to either of them. But he stays still, because that’s what they want from him.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>When they want to kiss him, they will.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The bed shifts again, this time on his other side, and then James is touching him too, one calloused palm cupping Clint’s left pec.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Clint swallows hard, waiting for their hands to move, waiting for some kind of direction - something. Anything.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Lips press against his, and Clint kisses back, and it isn’t until there’s a tongue in his mouth that he knows it’s James kissing him. His lips are slick, taste and feel like lipstick, and it might be from the one kiss he and Natasha already shared but Clint bets they kissed more while he was on the bed waiting for them.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>James’s mouth moves away, and Natasha’s replaces it. She bites at Clint’s lips, pulls a groan from him and then a whine when her tongue thrusts into his mouth, steals his breath before she pulls back.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The mattress shifts again, and this close, he can hear their breathing, the shift of skin against skin and fabric.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Someone is crawling up his body - Natasha, Clint would guess, since Bucky still has a hand on Clint’s pec.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>And- </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Yeah. It’s Natasha.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Her thighs bracket his head, her pussy close enough to his face that he can smell her, can feel the heat of her, the brush of coarse curls against his chin.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It had surprised Clint, the first time Natasha pulled off her panties and showed off a dark thatch of curls between her legs. He’d just sort of expected, considering her age and … everything, that she would be the type of person to wax or shave or have a stringently landscaped groin. Especially since James does wax - at least his ass and balls and groin. But Natasha doesn’t, and there’s something unbearably erotic about it, about feeling her like that.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re going to eat her out,” James says, voice a deep rumble, “and I’m going to play with your pretty dick in your pretty panties.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Clint makes a noise - maybe a moan, maybe a whimper - he isn’t sure how anyone would classify it, and he hopes to fuck no one will try.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah. Yes, please,” he says. They like it when he’s vocal. They like it a lot when they take him to a point where forming sentences is totally beyond him, but until they reach that point, and even mostly then, they want his vocal consent.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Clint.” Natasha says his name a little harshly, drawing him back from the mouthwatering memories of eating her out before.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“If you come before I do, you’re going to spend the rest of the weekend in a cage.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Definitely a whimper this time and- </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>And look.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The thing is, Clint is a good-looking guy.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He’s never had a problem finding people to fuck, finding people to fuck him.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>When he hit thirty-five, he… maybe had a kind-of, sort-of midlife crisis kind of thing. He’d been planning on competing in the 2020 Olympics, but then COVID and then a year quarantined in his West Hollywood apartment, his only contact with the outside world at a distance when he went on runs with his dog. And he’d kind of rethought everything. Because yeah, he could probably still compete, whenever the Olympics came around again, and… and in the meantime, he had endorsements, had other competitions that would come back at some point, had the vague idea of opening up an archery school, but…</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>But when things were finally safe enough to actually go out to a bar, to hook up with someone and literally fuck the night away without worrying he was somehow going to end up as a pushpin on a corkboard linking a virus from one victim to another, and he’d had a very startling moment of clarity.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Fuck it all. Literally.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The sex hadn’t even been that good - had actually been quick and a little rough in the awkward, not the fun, way, and… and Clint had gone to Vegas for the weekend. Had treated himself to a very expensive escort - because a year with just toys and his own hands, because he had been </span>
  <em>
    <span>good</span>
  </em>
  <span> and had stayed under quarantine - and that had been it, for Clint. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Because sex? Good sex?</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Clint could do that. Clint </span>
  <em>
    <span>wanted </span>
  </em>
  <span>to do that.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>His escort that night, Paul, had been good enough to talk shop with Clint, had given Clint his card, recommended he call his agent, Darcy, and the rest… the rest was history. Now it was, anyway.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>So, for the last two years, Clint’s full-time job has been fucking.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>And he’s done some kinky shit - even before this was his job.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>But Natasha and James?</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It’s like they have a fucking manual on </span>
  <em>
    <span>How to Make Clint Completely Lose It</span>
  </em>
  <span>. And they’ve got that manual memorized. Covered in sticky flags and ten colors of highlighter. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Clint.” Natasha says his name in that tone that means she’s waiting for something.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Oh. Right.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Him.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah. Yes. Green. So green.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>James laughs, gives Clint’s pec a rough squeeze, and then the hand is gone and- and Clint is pretty sure that James pushes Natasha down onto Clint’s face.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Which, fine by him.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Clint breathes her in and sighs in delight. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He’s bi, he’s sex-positive, and he’s easy. He likes to eat pussy and he likes to get dicked down and he likes it when people make him cry. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Which Natasha and James always, without fail, and often in excess, do. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>So his response to the smell and feel and </span>
  <em>
    <span>taste</span>
  </em>
  <span> of Natasha’s pussy is damn near Pavlovian. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Licking up, mouth wide and tongue searching for the seam between her lips, Clint feels like he’s entering heaven.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>She’s already wet, rich and a little bitter, hot and slick between the tickle of her pubic hair.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He wishes he could use his hands, wishes he could hold her ass and angle her just a bit more - but they would have told him to grab her if he was allowed.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>So he lets Natasha do the arranging, the angling, until he’s got her clit under his tongue and is able to suck it into his mouth.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Natasha moans, so soft and pretty, the kind of sound Clint has to </span>
  <em>
    <span>earn</span>
  </em>
  <span>, and it lights him up like verbalized praise would.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He could spend hours doing this - has, for other clients, and once for Natasha herself - and get lost in it.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>But James is an asshole, and they did tell him what was going to happen.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Still, Clint just about chokes when he feels James’s teeth against the cotton of his trunks, feels the sharp drag of them along the tucked-up length of his dick.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>James holds him down, hands strong but not bruising - no marks, never any marks - which is a Darcy rule that Clint would gladly flout but James and Natasha never will.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It takes Clint a moment to get his focus back - pain and pleasure and just that hint of danger all wrapped around his dick is a tough thing to try to ignore - but he does.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He applies himself to Natasha’s pussy, giving her clit a few gentle nibbles that have her breath stuttering and her hips rocking against his face and her hands grabbing at his hair.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Clint is able to get his tongue deep into her, licking and thrusting until she’s really riding his face, alternating between fucking down on his tongue and shifting so he can lavish attention on her clit.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Meanwhile, James - James is on a goddamn mission to ruin Clint. He’s got one hand massaging Clint’s balls, the other still across his hips to keep him steady. And his mouth - his fucking mouth. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Clint’s trunks are wet, mostly from James’s mouth but surely from Clint’s precome as well. James is somehow sucking Clint’s dick despite the fabric and the angle. And it’s- it’s not great, definitely not the best James can do, but it’s sure as fuck not </span>
  <em>
    <span>bad.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Especially not with Natasha on his face, not with her sounds and James’s and Clint’s own as he whines and groans and licks and sucks, and it is- </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It is the kind of filthy that is so hot Clint feels like his skin doesn’t even fit anymore.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Arousal is a steady, deafening thrum in his veins and nerves and dick.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Natasha starts making those small, tight little keening noises that means she’s close.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Clint sucks in a breath when James pauses.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Shit.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Fuck.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He knows what comes next.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Natasha is going to pull away, and James is going to dive back in while Natasha settles herself just enough to outlast Clint and- </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Fuck.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Fuck.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>They haven’t put him in a cockcage before.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>They talked about it - they never ambush him with new things, always talk it out over the phone beforehand, a whole array of shit they are considering, so that he never knows what exactly they are going to do to him but definitely knows what they are </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> going to do.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He really, really doesn’t want to be put in a cockcage.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Except for how he kind of desperately wants to. The idea of it just- </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He isn’t sure why, or how, or even </span>
  <em>
    <span>what</span>
  </em>
  <span> about it does it for him, but- but the night they called last week to discuss it, Clint googled cockcages and lubed up a prostate massager and fucked himself until he was coming dry while he tried to imagine it.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>But Natasha doesn’t pull away. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Neither does James, though. After that pause, he dives right back in, and Clint- </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Fuck.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He doubles down. Or up. Something.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Goes for gold.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>When Natasha comes, it’s with a startled gasp - every time, as if she’s shocked it feels this good - and she grabs Clint’s face and holds him in place while she grinds down.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He can’t really breathe, but that’s fine. He’s not going to complain about dying like this.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Plus, one of the perks to fucking as a trio means there’s usually someone watching out - and in this case, it’s James - who pulls Natasha away before Clint even has to struggle for breath.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It’s nice of him, of course, but James has the ulterior motive of wanting to dive in there - there being Clint’s mouth - and lick as much of Natasha out as he can.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>A few minutes - hell, maybe it’s a few hours - later, James stops trying to tongue-fuck Clint’s mouth into another dimension and eases up, kisses actually becoming kisses.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Natasha resettles against Clint’s side, kisses his cheek, then leans against his face to kiss James.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Clint can hear them kissing, making out, can feel the brush of their lips and cheeks and chins against his own face.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It’s intimate, but at the same time - it’s not like they need Clint here for this. He’s just an accessory. Like their expensive clothes and jewelry.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It absolutely should not make him feel good to think of himself that way, to think of them thinking of him that way.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>But fuck if it doesn’t make him all tingly and floaty.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You did good,” James praises Clint.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes,” Natasha agrees. “Very good.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Tingly and floaty leaves the stratosphere. He’s always been a slut for praise - back when he was a kid and never got it to when he was an Olympian and working his ass off to earn it, and now - now, when he fucks for it.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Thanks,” he manages to say, both to be polite and to let them know he’s still totally (mostly) with it.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>James chuckles, kisses him again.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Natasha bites at Clint’s lips - lower, then upper, because unlike James, who draws the line at biting Clint through clothes but never directly on his skin, Natasha will give him those bright bursts of pleasure-pain without any qualms.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“We could still put you in the cage,” Natasha whispers to him, right into his good ear. Well, his better ear. “If you want us to.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I…”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>They don’t make him decide things often. Don’t actually give him the option to decide things very much - unless it’s saying he doesn’t want to do something. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He is, after all, their toy. An accessory. It isn’t his job to decide what to do, it’s theirs.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>James laughs, and it’s a little mean, but not very. Just enough to make Clint blush.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Why don’t you ride his dick first,” James says, “and then we’ll lock it away for the rest of the weekend.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Natasha makes a sound of pleased agreement.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“What about you?” Clint asks, turning his head in the direction he thinks James’s face is.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“What about me?” James echoes.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Clint reaches blindly out, finds James’s chest - he’s naked, or at least shirtless. Clint moves his hand down, confirms that James is indeed naked, and wraps his fingers around James’s hard dick.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“What about you?” Clint repeats. It’s a little bratty, touching without instruction, but he did just win their little game - truly a first. Then again, he’s not sure it wasn’t rigged that way from the start.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You got any idea what you wanna do with that?” James asks, and thrusts forward into Clint’s hand.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Clint has about five hundred ideas. But give him a few minutes and he could definitely think of more.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Fuck me?” he asks. Okay, he begs.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“While you fuck my girl?” James surmises.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Clint wants to say yes, but all he gets out is a strangled sound.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Natasha kisses him.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“What an excellent idea, Clint. I’m so glad we decided not to gag you this weekend.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>And that- </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Clint sets </span>
  <em>
    <span>that</span>
  </em>
  <span> aside.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>For now.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Is that… a yes?” he asks.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>They both laugh, short and soft, genuinely amused by him.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah,” James confirms. “We’re gonna give our greedy boy his fill, and then you’re gonna be in for a hell of a weekend.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Natasha strokes Clint’s cheek.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Is that what you want?” she asks him.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Hell, yeah.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>-o-</span>
</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
  </div></div>
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